


with frostbit hands and snowblind souls

by feralphoenix



Series: a heart is no king's throne [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Disabled Character, Gen, Nonverbal Frisk, Spoilers, Temporary Character Death, photophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frisk and Chara encounter some technical difficulties in Snowdin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with frostbit hands and snowblind souls

**Author's Note:**

> _(my eyes are the color of water_ – make room for small, fragile things, even with [bones](http://marchenwings.tumblr.com/post/143344471979/) like cement and a leaden heart)

You figure at first that the trudging and the hiding their face behind their bangs is upset, or maybe fear. For all that you know you’ve been kind of snappish with them, you couldn’t begrudge them either—first there was everything with Toriel, which was confusing and also horrible, and then there was that damn flower again, and _then_ the skeleton who had to make a big deal out of stalking you before he decided to actually introduce himself.

But they were giggling all through meeting the taller skeleton—Papyrus, you remind yourself—for the first time, and if you put tentative feelers out towards the seam between where you’re joined at the soul, they _seem_ more relaxed. This isn’t helping them move any faster.

“What’s the holdup?” you ask them at last. It’s taken them some ten minutes to stumble into and out of a confrontation with a Snowdrake and fumble around with the snowman and the box.

 _It’s too bright,_ Frisk answers, anxiety and embarrassment tinging their voice in your mind. _I can’t see where I’m going very well._

“Too bright?” you repeat blankly. They tuck their hands into their armpits and nod, miserable.

It is kind of darker in Home—in the Ruins, you guess—than it is here in Snowdin, sure, you’ll give them that. You used to have trouble with that for a couple minutes whenever you got to Snowdin from Home or from Waterfall, because of how little pigment there was in your irises. But Frisk doesn’t have red eyes like you—they go around with their eyes nearly closed all the time, but you’ve seen their reflection enough times that you can tell their eyes are blue.

The mean part of you wants to snipe at them, because there’s no way that they’ve really got it as bad as they think they do. But… even with everything that must’ve happened to make them climb the mountain, even though they were scared senseless, they still stuck it out and refused to hurt Toriel. That’s not something that just any old human could and would’ve done.

So you bite your metaphorical tongue and sigh. “Look,” you say. “If you can’t handle it, you could let me steer for a while. I’ll still let you call the shots, like—within reason and all, because it’s your body. But this is taking _forever.”_

 _You’re really impatient,_ they remark. You groan. Okay, so you’re just a backseat-driving ghost or whatever something like you ought to be called, but there’s so much that’s changed about the underground since you were alive and you need to get to the bottom of whatever’s happening. Why is Toriel living apart from Asgore? What on earth happened after you and Asriel died? Worry and frustration gnaw at you, refusing to let go. _I don’t mind. If it doesn’t hurt you, then go ahead. It’d really help if you can get us through here, because I don’t know if I can do it by myself._

“What, seriously? That sure was easy,” you say, and Frisk eases out of your way and you sink into the forefront, the cold biting their bare skin much more immediate and apparent than it when you were watching over their shoulder.

Then you open their eyes and it’s like getting stabbed in the skull by spears made of light.

You may scream, slightly. You _definitely_ swear, and cover Frisk’s face with both their arms and sink down into a crouch. Your—their—god this is so confusing— _whatever,_ your eyes are tearing up, and colorful spots dance behind your eyelids, threatening you with a headache.

“Fuck,” you moan. “Fuck! Oh _god,_ you weren’t kidding!”

 _Did you really think I was just being a baby about it?_ Frisk asks, half woeful but half with that kind of solemn I-told-you-so tone that immediately gets your hackles up.

“No,” you shoot back. “I don’t know?? Oh god, I just. Completely failed to appreciate the severity of this situation. Oh my _god.”_

 _Maybe you’d better give me control back,_ they suggest. You really _really_ hope that that tinge to their voice in your mind isn’t amusement, because oh boy are you going to bite them if it is.

“Be my guest,” you tell them, distancing yourself from the body as fast and as vehemently as you can. The pain and the cold both dull as Frisk takes back over.

 _But what are we going to do?_ they ask you, flickering worry at you now. _I can probably get from place to place okay if I’m slow and careful, but what about puzzles? What if we get attacked by other monsters?_

It is a problem. You have your save points, and you have more determination than could possibly belong to just Frisk and you, but dying is not pleasant. Not even when it’s quick instead of long and drawn-out the way you did it way back when.

“It doesn’t bother me so much when I’m just watching,” you say, thinking out loud more than anything else. “So I can give you directions, as best I can. But you’ve got to be willing to trust me on them, since you can’t really look and see where you’re going to check.”

 _I’ll give it a try,_ Frisk replies, a little dubious.

You’d get mad. You _want_ to get mad, and feel insulted. But you understand better than most people how scary it is to be asked to trust somebody.

“I’ll do the best I can,” you tell them. “Let’s go.”

 

 

The maze puzzle goes okay—you’re able to direct Frisk to just closely follow Papyrus’ footsteps without any problems. Sans’ weird word search and Papyrus’ plate of spaghetti aren’t a problem, either.

Then you run into Snowdrake, Ice Cap, and Jerry all together, and the bullet patterns are too much, too fast. You get your right and left mixed up once, and Frisk is just a little too slow, and—

Their soul splits. You shatter. Pain rings, and then there’s nothing but an ancient memory of Asgore’s voice anchoring you to the world.

 

 

“Stop petting that damn dog and let’s go,” you order.

Frisk shakes their head and buries their face in Lesser Dog’s neck instead, not letting up petting it for even a moment. It’s Lesser Dog, so they’re pretty much wrapped up in a dog-neck anaconda at this point.

“I _said_ I was sorry,” you remind them.

 _Head hurts,_ Frisk thinks back at you, and you fall silent.

“We do have to get going _eventually,”_ you tell them at length. “There’ll be a town a little further ahead. There’ll be buildings and stuff, you can go inside and get some rest from all the white everywhere. It’s better than sitting out here in the snow freezing your butt off, Frisk.”

 _I’m tired of fighting,_ they retort, sounding as sulky and cranky as you feel. _Let me rest more._

You want to just drag them, because they are being such a damn _brat_ about it all, but you just sigh instead. “You get one more minute.”

They grunt into Lesser Dog’s fur. It licks their ear, and they make a low whimpery noise. You huff. They sure do have a lot of room to complain about _you_ crying. They’re just as bad as Asriel.

Pain bubbles up in you, fierce, horrible. It has nothing to do with Frisk’s physical state, or the condition of the soul you share. It has everything to do with the fact that you’re a bad friend, a bad guide, an all-around bad person.

You need to give them a break. They didn’t ask for this either. They don’t deserve to be stuck with you.

“I wish I had my own body,” you say. “Or that I could at least—I don’t know. Lead you around by the hand or something. With words it’s too easy to make mistakes.”

 _Yeah,_ Frisk agrees, surprising you. _It’s—it’s nice to have you here in my head, but… I still feel alone on the outside. I wish I could touch you._

“I don’t really like hugs that much,” you warn them. “Especially not from people I don’t know too well yet.”

 _That’s okay,_ they say, only sounding a little bit disappointed. _We could at least hold hands or something. That would be nice._

“Too bad I’m a little bit dead for that,” you tell them, laughing at yourself and this whole stupid world.

 _It is,_ Frisk agrees, but from them it actually sounds sincere. They sigh, straighten up, and give Lesser Dog one last kiss on the nose. It washes their face enthusiastically, which would be a lot cuter if it weren’t cold and putting Frisk at risk of a frostbitten nose.

 

 

You recognize the dogs with axes who get in your and Frisk’s way next—you can still remember their bullet patterns, because they practiced with you and Asriel when you were still getting used to monster magic.

“I can get us out of this if you listen to me _very closely,”_ you tell Frisk, and they tense up, eyes closed tight.

(They don’t die this time, but it’s a near thing.)

 

 

You’re rescued from Papyrus’ worst puzzle by Papyrus himself (“Do you absolutely dapsolutely want to know the answer?”), and though your stomach would be dropping out of your body if you had both of those things every single time Frisk slides off the icy switch puzzle, it never hurts them, just dumps them feet-first into a relatively forgiving snowbank.

All the petting practice comes in handy when you run into yet another dog sentry. This one’s not quite as easy to please as some of the other ones, but when it looks like Frisk is going to be in trouble, you remind them that they’ve got a stick they can use to play fetch with, and things go much faster after that.

Sans asks surreptitiously if Frisk is okay. They just shake their head and shrug, noncommittal, because it’s not something that they could answer even if they were fine being open with him, and because the town is _right there_ with its promise of an escape from the bright snow.

The inn is right near the town entrance, and Frisk staggers in and pays for their room straight off. Whoever’s sleeping next door is snoring like a million chainsaws, but the room itself is dark, and Frisk collapses on the bed gratefully, opening their eyes for the first time in hours.

“That was a mess,” you sigh. “And we still have to deal with Papyrus somehow before we can get to Waterfall, too… at least it’ll be darker once we’re in there.”

 _Thank you,_ they sign, smiling.

“Huh?” You push confusion at them. “I haven’t been useful at all.”

 _You have too,_ they argue back, sticking their tongue out. _I wouldn’t have made it this far without you at all. I think… once we get a little more practice… you and me will make a really good team._

You make to reply to that, but fall silent at the strange sensation of warmth. Frisk is holding their left hand in their right, smiling. And even though you haven’t got a face to blush with, you still feel hot and flustered.

“Yeah, whatever,” you say back. “Let’s get you out of Snowdin first. And also let’s both figure out the difference between right and left.”

Frisk rolls over, burying their face in the pillow. _Okay,_ they say, indulgent and grating as ever. _Goodnight, Chara. I love you._

“What _ever,”_ you repeat, a little higher-pitched.

They don’t wind up getting any sleep, but they seem a lot happier when they go downstairs anyway, and you’re weirdly glad of it.


End file.
